Glory of the Sun
by Isofaux
Summary: TFP, AU. When Breakdown is captured by MECH, he receives unexpected help from a human with many grudges to bear. When he breaks free, he is forced to contend with a being that is disassembling his life, and who is just as devious and secretive as any Decepticon.
1. Prologue

_This story was around four years in the making. I left it to gather electronic dust before I finally re-visited it, polished it, and published it. It is set in the TFP universe, with elements of other canon works. Because of the changes I will incorporate, it will be listed as AU, to be safe._

* * *

Mobius waited for the static snow to clear on his screen.

In the darkness of his small home in the Yazd Province, he watched as dust motes fluttered and settled on the ruins of his legs. On those stumps, scarred and puckered from the chemical burns of an IED – a gift from an Iraqi he seldom forgot – he balanced a laptop cleverly concealed in a suitcase. As far as espionage went, it was a common device, but its weathered leather case gave the impression it was simply another heirloom from a time before 1979.

Mobius adjusted a few ports, cleaned the screen with a cloth, and plugged in his industrial-grade headphones. They were noise cancellers, both for the outside and for anyone who thought they could worm their way into his private conversations. He had bought them from a connection outside of Iran; ironically, they came from an Arabian investor. He considered it one of the most consistent and unfailing items he owned.

The static snow parted, the electronic current clearing the way for the man hailing his attention. Mobius adjusted his stance, straightening from his slouch and gave a small salute with two fingers.

" _Mobius,"_ his superior spoke, low and drawling without any sense of urgency. " _It's been_ _180_ _days since your last report. Ha_ _ve_ _there been any_ _new developments_ _?"_

Mobius inclined his head. It was a fine and slight gesture, without wasted words and without giving away his true thoughts. " _There's been an incident."_

Pause. Slight crackling of snow, like a brush over dried skin. _"Explain."_

" _At 14:00 hours there was a disturbance at the Yadavaran field. Two vehicles,_ _an MQ-1 Predator drone and what resembles a Mercedes-Benz Zetros, were caught entering the field out of Kuwait. Iranian F-4 Phantoms intercepted the drone before it scrambled their telemetry systems and all satellite communications. The pilots were then debriefed and detained by VEVAK. They believe this to be a covert CIA operation."_

His superior digested the information, saying nothing but nodding here and there at certain moments; some stories were new, some he already knew, yet he gave no indication that he was alarmed by Mobius' information dump. A 'Hmm' there, a chin rub over here. Once Mobius' report was done, his superior glanced behind himself once, gave a firm nod, and turned back to Mobius.

" _You are to resume 24-hour surveillance, and will report back to me at 6-hour intervals. If there are any new developments, you are to report immediately without hesitation. You have my personal communications line. Do not hesitate to let us in_ _on your country's intelligence service."_

" _Understood, sir."_

With that, the impromptu debriefing was over. Mobius encrypted his e-mails, gathered up his files, and sent the rest with feather-light taps over his keyboard. When he was finished, he shut down his laptop, snapped shut the case, and tucked it in a crevice under his bed. He knew it was failed protocol 101: do not hide anything of a sensitive nature in a place where it is easily accessible, because that is how you get caught, and that is how the government places you in a concrete grave. But Mobius also knew that Yazd was not Tehran, and villagers posed as Big Brother regularly, spying on their neighbours and reporting to _mullahs_ if a girl was caught wandering around in her home without a headscarf. If anyone thought of breaking into his home to steal something, the street sweepers or the old women selling carpets in the markets would be the first to tell him.

Mobius immediately understood the unfolding situation as much as his superior did: two vehicles in a country at odds with America and of American make aroused immediate suspicion and accusations of spying. It was not too long ago when a similar drone was intercepted with the sole intent of spying on Iranian activities. The ensuing scandals with the CIA and the American government were inevitable, especially if the Iranian pilots decided to go public with their stories. It would be the Iran-Iraq war redux, but with more casualties, more sanctions, and more issues of a non-human nature.

Mobius hopped over awkwardly to his wheelchair, and grabbed his faded and torn leather briefcase from the adjacent table. In it were his papers, money, some sunscreen, sunglasses, and a birthday wish list. When he set out for the Yazd _bazaar,_ no one thought much of his sun-kissed skin, dark yet trimmed beard, or his stunning green eyes. They saw him as Mehrdad, the Iran-Iraq war veteran who lost his legs fighting for Iran's honour.

They didn't see him as Mobius, former member of SEVAK and a hard-lined member of MECH.

* * *

 _ **Notes:**_

 _ **\- SEVAK was Iran's secret military police before 1979. VEVAK is its successor.**_


	2. Welcome to the Suck

_If while alive you hurt or disappoint people you love, there's no use continuing such behavior when you're dead. - **Anthony Swofford, Jarhead**_

* * *

 _ **Tehran, Iran**_

It had already gone sour.

Though she was nearing her twentieth year on this earth, her mother still insisted on packing her lunches. Anything from fruit stew, apricots, loaves of bread, or the occasional cashew, it would be in a battered tin lunch box, a souvenir from her uncle's wartime experiences. It looked so ruined compared to her rich silks and the diamond studded _maghne'e_ she wore over her hair. It had paint that flecked and peeled with every touch, with the tang of tin left on her fingers. The insignia of the Iranian military was stamped beneath the lid, its lines and carvings crude with age.

Her mother made it a habit of convincing her every time she left with her food that she should put it in a proper container instead of a war veteran's memorial box. Despite the head-shaking, the eye-rolling, and the loose chastisements of her mother she kept the box, seeing it as a personal, lively anecdote of the vast and violent world she was born into.

Mehrnaz Farhadi was the only child of Delaram and Irman Farhadi, the former a fashion consultant and uncredited designer in a ritzy, upscale Tehran garment shop, and the latter a popular jeweller and real-estate investor. She was the only pregnancy that was successful; her mother had been pregnant twice before her, and lost her would-be siblings to miscarriages in the second trimester. Irman blessed God, and the departed Shahanshah for his blessing of a living child. Her mother's struggle to have children and the loss she suffered led to Mehrnaz being doted on and adored by her parents and extended family members.

She found herself looking at the ruined plum in her palm. It was crinkled, with the red-violet skin seeping ooze like a slow-moving river. She ruefully chucked the plum into the nearest trash bin, wishing that it hadn't gone sour. Plums were among her favourite fruit, and as a child she had begged her mother to buy baskets of them, eating so many that her mother lovingly joked that she would get sick of them. She did not and had not, nor did she have any inclination to stop eating them. She could eat as many sweets as she wished and never got an upset stomach or bad teeth from them. It was a feat her father teased about which would earn her disfavour with her future husband.

"You'll be so full of sugar that your husband's heart will stop before he even kisses you!" her father had said. It was always accompanied with a laugh, so Mehrnaz knew he was not being too serious. She'd give him a smile that would make the Shahanshah rise from his grave, and he would lightly pat her hair, careful not to tousle a single strand.

Mehrnaz's hair, as trivial as it would be to anyone else, posed a threat to her. She was blonde, and while that may have once represented divine beauty and royalty, today it was asking for trouble. Coupled with intense green eyes, a coquettish figure, and body free of ailments, that was equivalent to stitching her own wounds. Her skin was the colour of sand, and with the yellow of her hair she looked like she was plucked out of the desert. She knew was desirable, and desirability meant marriage proposals. Thankfully, her parents thought more of her status and independence, wanting her to have a solid career in a respectable profession so her future husband would not rely on a broodmare for his needs.

Mehrnaz was thankful for that – but the thanks ended there. She entered the Sharif University of Technology with the promise that she'd study agriculture to contribute to the country's continued needs of abundant food and arable farmland. While she studied biology, chemistry, and the other requisite courses, in truth she had her eyes set on a dangerous, yet thrilling profession: Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

Mehrnaz knew her parents would be neurotic at her choice, and her mother would be at the forefront, waving her hands, biting her lip, or a fist near her mouth as she'd fall to her knees and beg Mehrnaz to change her mind. Her father would turn his back to her, or ask her uncle to solve the problem if he was there.

So far, her parents were unaware, and misfortune did not yet storm into her house. She went to her classes in the mornings and afternoons, went home to eat lunch and study, and in the evenings helped her mother at the shop. Mehrnaz was studious, punctual, and did not miss a class even when she was ill with the flu or when her skin swelled from scorpion stings. The excitement of her future career was impetus enough; it made the skies part and the sun bless her spirit with health and fortune. It was good. It was all very, very good.

She finished taking her notes for the day, and gathered her things for the walk to the West Terminal. There she would get on Line 4 of the Tehran Metro, travel past Mehrabad Airport, make the transfer to Line 1, and ride to Tajrish, her home city. Delaram and Irman moved to Tajrish from Shamiranat County to escape the pollution and to take advantage of the growing business prospects and tourism there. When Delaram had to attend fashion meetings and major sales, she would make the 4-hour commute from Tajrish to Isfahan, and not return until the next afternoon.

Mehrnaz rode the metro without incident. No men eyed her inappropriately, and no women criticized her rather sensational dress choices; she prepared her _maghne'e_ by wrapping it tighter around her head, and if women from the more conservative regions were on the metro that day, she loosened it and let it fall over her blonde hair. She kept her eyes to herself, spoke to no one unless she was spoken to, and walked the streets like any Tehrani: eyes forward, silent yet respectable, and always with a destination in mind.

She returned home earlier than expected, and walked through the arched doorway of her modern, yet forever Zoroastrian, house. It was almost unfair to call it a house: it had been listed as an apartment with its three stories and glass facades that were designed to give it a quasi-shopping mall appearance. Delaram hated the look; she ordered the glass to be taken out and the walls replaced with the traditional Persian arches and motifs. She ordered a small pool and garden to be built in the back, and used the leftover concrete and sand to make spiral columns in the main rooms. The French carpets were thrown out and replaced with Persian rugs, and the glass that remained was changed into stained glass with flowers and birds etched into them. A short wall was constructed around the property to give it privacy and security, with two driveways and small garages placed on the eastern side of the house. Mehrnaz and her parents lived in the first two floors, with the third rented to Mehrnaz's childhood friend Farrah Alizadeh and her family.

Mehrnaz prepared the master suite for her bath, removing her _maghne'e_ and her collection of jewellery: scorpion-styled bracelets, small topaz stud earrings, a simple anklet she wore beneath her blooming trousers. She set up her cleansers, hair brush and radio on the counter top, so she could listen to music or news reports while bathing. She had gone to retrieve her favourite plush towels when she heard persistent knocking from the downstairs suite.

 _Knock. Knock knock knock. Knock knock_ _ **KNOCK**_ _._

It occurred to Mehrnaz that the sound was not from a bird colliding with the window, for that brought a loud _thump_ coupled with the panicked fluttering of wings. It could not be an electrician or a visitor; they knocked once or twice, called out for the owner of the home or whistled when they were in pleasant moods. It was not Farrah, for she was gone visiting her aunts in Qom, and would not return until the weekend.

So who was the owner of those demanding fists which rat-a-tatted on her front door? Mehrnaz frowned. The owner did not pound on her door, nor shout at her to come down and let him in. It was not the patter of Delaram, for her rings would clink on the doorknob and she'd always vocalize her complaints.

Mehrnaz grabbed a towel to substitute for a _chador,_ because while in her own home she could go without any head covering and wear as she pleased, she would still have to answer the door like an Iranian citizen, and be respectful of public law around the showing of her hair.

She twisted the lock, her de-ringed hands making no sound as she gripped the handle and pulled open the door. Had she been wearing them, the owner of the desperate fists might have been aware of her presence; had some time to prepare. As she was not, the owner of said fists, looking behind him at the streets, jumped like a mouse swatted with a broom when he noticed her.

Had Mehrnaz not been holding the door, she would have jumped as high as he did. The visitor was disfigured with violent bruises and held his elbow in one hand, blood dripping from a shabby tourniquet into the rug at his feet. The skin on his cheeks had peeled, there was a bald patch under one ear and blood coming out of another, and his wild eyes could seldom focus on her.

Mehrnaz's fist rose to her mouth from the sight. The humid May air combined with Tehrani pollution was pulled out of her lungs.

"By God! Oh, Kazem, what has happened to you?"

* * *

 _ **Notes**_

 _ **\- There is a saying, 'In Tehran, you do as the Tehranis do'. The laws around hair covering and clothing in general have gone stricter and less strict over the years, you can get away with wearing jewellery and jeans so long as they are not skinny jeans and your behind is covered by long shirts.**_

 _ **\- The maghne'e is not as large as a chador, and many Iranian women prefer to wear them over the alternatives.**_

 _ **\- Real estate investment in Iran is largely done by Chinese firms, with other nations engaging in business, like the Gulf States.**_

 _ **\- In more conservative areas like Qom, the clothing requirements are stricter.**_

 _ **\- If there are any Persian readers, you have my apologies for screwing up your language/customs/etc if it happens.**_


	3. Inside the Kingdom

_God has yet to create a harmless man. Either he is up to no good, and just wants to keep you busy so that you don't interfere with his life, or he is so deeply in love he can't say no to you...Wait a little, see what song he sings. -_ _ **The Book of Fate,**_ _ **Parinoush San**_ _ **i**_ _ **ee**_

* * *

Mehrnaz shooed Kazem into her house, shut the door and dashed for towels from the kitchen. When she returned to his side, Kazem had just collapsed into a chair, heavy breaths spilling from his mouth and hair sticky and flaked with blood both fresh and old. The tourniquet hid a fetid wound that went to his bone, where its crisp whiteness was as bright as the moonstone studded cushion he sat on. She removed the tourniquet, wrapped a dish cloth tightly around the wound, and went to fetch a bucket of water and medicinal supplies. She rushed back and forth like a wasp to a cube of sugar, and at last brought forth a suture kit. It'd been a birthday gift from her uncle, a man she hadn't seen in years, and was seldom used.

She unzipped the bag, took out the surgical gloves, needle, thread, scissors, medicinal alcohol, and forceps. As she went to clean his wounds, Kazem hissed and writhed in his shoes.

"Ah, Mehrnaz, not too harsh!" he cried. "You're going to burn me with all that alcohol!"

"Hush," she admonished. She brought the forceps near his arm, poking under the flesh for glass or rock. "Either I do this or you lose the arm. Do you want to live with a stump, Kazem? How will you explain that to your father? Your tennis coaches?"

Kazem did not answer. He cringed when she poked upon his tender flesh, but the reaction was strongest when she wiped near his ear. In the deep cut shone glass and tiny pieces of black rock. It looked like obsidian or even hardened rubber. The 'how' on those things ending up there had to be placed behind the 'how to remove them'. Kazem raised a hand to meet her wrist in protest, but Mehrnaz waved him away.

"Yes, Kazem. I need to pluck out the shards. Now stay still, and maybe you can tell me what kind of devil played this game with you."

Kazem bowed his head. He was darker than her, with a straight nose and chocolate brown eyes that melted into his darker locks. Around his chin and jaw there was stubble; or there _was_ before the devil rained down hammers and nails on his face. On good days he had cuts and nicks from poor shaving, and bandages on his nose from being hit by a rogue tennis ball. He had gained muscle mass since joining the tennis team at the university; before, he was thinner, lanky even, and looked half-starved. It was at Mehrnaz's insistence – and force feeding – that had given him back his health and strength. She had not questioned why he was like that, but Mehrnaz only asked questions when she felt they were needed.

At this moment, though, questions burned in her head. She examined both his arms, feeling for broken bones or fractures, but thankfully there were none. The bone she had seen and then sealed up was firm when she touched it. Lacerations were all over his body, with his chest, face, and thighs showing the heaviest damage after she pulled up his trousers to view them (he again protested, cheeks deep with embarrassment at such a bold move, but Mehrnaz hadn't cared). It resembled a man who crawled out of a car wreck: bleeding, scratched, confused and unwilling to accept help.

Once the bleeding in his ears stopped, and the last of the filthy towels wrung in her bucket, she looked up at Kazem again. She pursed her lips.

From Kazem's forlorn mask, Mehrnaz knew that he wasn't willing to talk about it just yet. But if he could give her a sign or even a half-lie as to what happened, she'd be put at ease. A young man simply doesn't barge into a young, unmarried woman's house without a good reason; if Delaram was here, she'd shriek and push Kazem out the door like he was a cursed bird.

Why run to her, when there was the hospital? Why had no one seen his wounds and called for help? Who was with him?

Was there a point to even wondering, if she wouldn't get an answer?

"...We got into a fight."

"Hmm?" She zipped up her suture bag. The zipper had been louder than his voice, and she'd been so caught up in her own inner monologue she hadn't paid attention to him.

She eyed him closely. His chocolate eyes were narrowed on his feet, but at the same time it felt his focus was elsewhere. The mask he'd constructed chipped at the ends, but what came out was not the answer Mehrnaz was hoping for.

"Izad and Baraz. We were on a trip and we got into an argument. It...didn't end well."

Izad and Baraz were two of Kazem's teammates on the tennis team. They had just been admitted to a European championship, and they'd all been excited. Though Mehrnaz was aware Izad and Baraz could be tempestuous at times, they were otherwise amicable, and rarely shouted at each other.

"What made them do this? Why should they fight like a pack of street dogs?" Mehrnaz asked. She patted at his hair with a wet cloth, cleaning up the last of the hardened blood. "That is not like them. I have only ever seen them fight over a lost football match."

"Izad and I disagreed over who should go to Arnan and look at the rock art there. They wanted to steal some of the shards, but I told them to leave it be," he said. "I thought they would listen to me, but then they said, 'This stone is invaluable. We should sell some of it when we're in Europe,'" Kazem shook his head. "Those _kundi bazari_ decided words were not enough anymore."

Mehrnaz's frown left crude lines in her face. It made her look like a stone statue that had been nicked by a stone pick. "That is...pitiful," she said after a pause. "Defacing the Arnan stone would give them a life sentence in jail. And that is before the villagers would have their way with them."

Kazem eyed the bucket Mehrnaz had set on the floor. The water was coppery and his tourniquet floated in it like a dead and bloated fish. He sighed through his nose, and kept his eyes on his shoes.

If Mehrnaz could put her thoughts on the radio, she'd broadcast her complete doubt at Kazem's story. The Arnan Rock Art was firm in the Yazd Province, and was a pilgrimage site as well as an ancient trade route. Stealing from Iran a tablet showcasing ancient human habitation was a crime few could conceive of; not only was it defacement, it was defiling the nation. To take a piece from Persia's glorious past and sell it to Europeans in the name of material wealth was an idea Mehrnaz had a time time processing. It was a decision completely alien to Kazem's friends; none of them cared for field trips unless they involved sports. In fact, when she attended classes with them, they shunned history altogether.

What was the reason for this not-so-little white lie? The bruises on Kazem's body spoke of damage beyond what humans could deliver. They were almost imprinted on his bones, and the lacerations had been almost perfect in how clean cut they were. Men fought with fists, knives, teeth and feet. They scratched, they broke noses with their knuckles, and they tore skin with stones. Kazem, however, was a mosaic of symmetrical violence. How that was even possible, Mehrnaz could not say. It reminded her of a rock tumbler, but instead of getting fine rubies the blades refined skin and white bone.

As if to cool the embers of her questions, Kazem stood up. He still looked like an Arabian horse had kicked him off its back, but his cuts were sealed shut and he at least looked presentable. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

"I will talk to you next week. I have to...I have to tell my father not to worry about me. Thank you for helping me. I didn't have time to go to a hospital and I thought of you and - " Kazem trailed off. He blinked a few times, and kept his chapped lips shut. He left her side before Mehrnaz could wait for him to finish his sentence.

"I am sorry your friends treated you so poorly," Mehrnaz called out after him. She found that her voice did not carry with his footsteps. By the time he reached the door, Mehrnaz felt mute.

He left. She dumped the filthy water and cleaned up the bloodstains from the rugs and cushions. She returned to the master bathroom, carrying the dirty towels and throwing them in the laundry chute. She resumed her afternoon routine as if Kazem never arrived; as if he didn't look like an Iraqi torn by an explosive. He never cried when she tended his wounds, and he said not a word until she asked him questions.

'Odd' was too simple a term for what had happened. Mehrnaz struggled to reason that it had happened today, that afternoon, in her house.

In her bathtub, watching the water ripple and bubbles burst under the surface, Mehrnaz wondered if Kazem's little white lie was a _zadan_ she'd be forced to wear on her shoulders.

* * *

0

 _ **Al-Fakkah Field, Iran-Iraq Border**_

The one time he had explicit permission to kill a human and not be punished for it, he managed to screw it up.

They'd come across three humans, young twenty-somethings, in an area that boasted 12,000 year old rocks. He had to laugh at that; 12,000 years was _nothing_ to be proud of. He matured from sparkling to full mech in that period, and had battled for three times that length. There were rust stains on Ironhide's armour that were _at least_ that old. Really, he had a good snicker at human conceptions of time. In their freakishly short lives they consumed the flora and fauna of their planet and then had it rot in their guts before it even made it half of the way through. They grew intoxicated on fruit juices, lounged around on clumps of cloth in front of electronic screens, grew larger in size but not in brain matter, and waged war.

Now that? That was something he could understand; something he took plenty of pride and excitement in. It was one similarity they shared.

Another similarity was taking joy in the killing of those beneath them, and he'd finally – finally! - been given a chance to squish one of them in his servos and not have any Autobot get in his way.

And it'd been dashed. He screwed up. He let them 'slip through his fingers'. By Primus, did he ever _fume_.

Breakdown really had to consider what on this dirtball planet caused him to go full scrapheap on the simplest task he waited for orbital cycles to do. The three young humans were unarmed, stupidly curious and stupidly vulnerable, and decided it would be a great idea to come across two deadly Decepticons in the middle of their work. Sure, he got two of them – and what a disappointment that was, they simply came apart in his servos like a bucket of paint being turned over – but the third managed to get away from both of them.

It wasn't as if Breakdown hadn't _tried_ to screw up. Just go after the squishies, make sure they didn't flap those pink things around in their mouths, and keep it as clean as possible. But no...one of them just had to duck behind a crevice he couldn't get his arm through, and right when he was about to crush the slaggin' thing altogether, he was ordered to stop.

Breakdown was a nanoclick away from swinging his hammer into the faceplates of the bot who stopped him. When he found himself flat on his backstruts, staring at the clear expanse of azure skies with his processor stalling on what exactly just happened, did he realize just what sort of mistake he had made.

Now Breakdown had to formulate a worthy apology if he was going to return to the _Nemesis_ without his processor being wiped.

He was mildly thankful that only one other bot was monitoring his movements, because if anyone spotted his sheepish pose – inclined helm, servos behind his back, the subservience and apologies all the more visible– he would have thrown out protocol and used their faceplates as a polish for his pedes. Breakdown was, however, _very_ thankful that his superior had other things on his mind rather than seeing what his armour would look like as a human wind chime.

The disputed Al-Fakkah field was immense, with blackened craters all over the landscape. Humans contested this area over its oil, and in the 1990's a group of them set fire to the drilling rigs, setting alight the horizon and covering swaths of sky and land in heavy, oily smoke. The remains of drilling and the bleeding earth stood as lone spires, with dark yellow-brown sands that ghosted its frames and theirs. The heat sunk into their wires, but it was not all that unpleasant. It was not the oppressive humidity found in Earth's equatorial regions, yet it still had a slight _oomph_ that didn't dissipate when the night arrived.

Soundwave's midnight blue and violet-tinged frame was like those oil craters in the desert: inky, sleek, and dangerous when the fuse was lit. Like the deserts of Nevada, Soundwave stood out like a block of obsidian, and it was he whom the humans spotted first. His back was to them, his satellite attache open to the air, when, across his visor, he spotted their movements.

He was also the one who injured the fleshling that ran away, tearing at its skin with his tapering claws and back-handing it into the rock face. Breakdown was mildly surprised that Soundwave did not kill it outright, but he didn't bother to ask why. For one, Soundwave would never answer, and two, Soundwave did not talk about his intentions even when he _did_ speak.

Soundwave was the wraith he'd shown himself to be, and Breakdown had to apologize for trying to hit him in the face with his hammer. He coughed, trying on humility for once, as he approached him.

"Commander Soundwave, I wish to express my deepest apologies for striking out at you. I was reckless and did not use my processor, and I failed in my duties to apprehend the humans. I will not make the same mistake again. Your judgment is forever greater than mine."

Oh, Primus. Now he sounded like Starscream. Must he accept advice from Knock Out, who knew everything there was about apologies, sincerity, and duplicity? Again, thank Primus no one else was listening in. Breakdown might as well have pulled his own spark out from the sheer humiliation.

Soundwave kept his back to him, though he swivelled his helm in his direction. Breakdown could see the profile of Soundwave's faceplate, noting how he looked like a neutered turbofox in its reflection. Then again, Soundwave being this amicable was rare; had he been a Vehicon or even a higher ranking Deception, Soundwave wouldn't have hesitated in taking a part of him for a trophy.

" _See, Miko? I always break stuff. I'm not meant for handling finer things..."_

Breakdown visibly winced. Soundwave had a playback of Bulkhead speaking to his pet squishie, the Japanese girl known as 'Miko'. He'd seen her cheering Bulkhead on when they fought over the fresco depicting the Energon Harvester. He would have loved that human getting in the way – and the horror on Bulkhead's face as he crushed her. He had heard that the females of this species vocalize their distress more than the males, and it was as unpleasant as it was a thrill to hear.

" _I want to thank you for taking time out of your day to witness my hanging."_

 _Uh-oh._ Soundwave's full attention was on him. The silent wraith exuded no irritation or impatience, but if one paid close enough attention, small signs would show his displeasure towards those who crossed him. In this case, Soundwave started off with a Bulkhead recording, knowing it would make Breakdown cringe, and the second recording from an ex-U.S. president gave Breakdown an indication at just how badly his temper marred his judgment.

 _Primus. All this for taking a swing at him._

Soundwave pointed a single digit behind him, gesturing at the winds whipping against dunes and the sticky oil in the heat.

" _My patience is limited..._ _do not interfere with situations beyond your control."_

Huh. He hadn't heard that voice in a while...

 _ **CLANG**_

Soundwave's tentacles had already retracted by the time Breakdown's processor registered the dent in his helm. He rubbed over it tentatively, grumbling to himself that he really did deserve this. The TIC and Communications Expert was back surveying the horizon, scanning for signals, intercepting messages, and forming whatever plans swirled around in his processor.

Breakdown already wished he was back on the _Nemesis_ or even helping Knock Out terrorize street racers in Nevada and elsewhere. Just...anywhere but this uncomfortable position. Primus, can Soundwave tell him what he wanted, already?

As if on cue to his impatient litany, Soundwave broadcasted another recording. _"I have found what I'm looking for."_

Breakdown recognized the sound byte; it was from a popular song by the human band called 'U2', though Soundwave had edited the lyrics.

The next broadcast piqued Breakdown's interest, and it was also an indication that Soundwave was sending him on a new mission.

" _Oh, here she comes...watch out boy, she'll chew you up..."_

On Soundwave's faceplate he broadcast a set of co-ordinates, coupled with a picture of the lone human that had escaped from them. Breakdown watched surveillance footage of the wounded fleshling knocking on the door of a posh apartment turned three-story home, and another human ushering it in.

Breakdown focused on the other human who opened the door. He couldn't see much of its features; he couldn't even tell if it was male or female. All he saw was a yellowish blob stick its head out and a fist fly to its mouth.

" _Wow, humans have some pretty freaky features on this planet,"_ he mused in his head. He pointed a digit at the screen.

"You want the one, or both?"

" _Wherever you are, I'll be waiting...it will not be long until you are mine."_

Breakdown took that as an affirmative. He'd aim for the male fleshling, and the other one would be collateral damage if it came to it.

Soundwave nodded his assent for Breakdown to depart. He transformed, speeding off through the dry heat and crystal sands.

He made a mental note to have Knock Out pop out the dent in his head when he was done.

* * *

0

 _ **Tehran Metro**_

It was not yet mid-morning and her clothing was soaked with sweat. Spring had almost unnaturally given way to summer early in the year, leaving a heavy, smoky haze over the city. When the cool air came from the mountains, it provided a relief that was just as quickly swept away by the dryness from the desert. It was one extreme to the other like many places in the province. In the city it was heavier, with air conditioners humming and thumping with the struggle to keep buildings cool, and down in the subways, people lingered near the stairs to get the whoosh of air from the passing metro.

Mehrnaz had done this a few times when the heat became unbearable, but mostly she stood there to watch the trains go by and have a moment to herself. After classes and speaking to fellow classmates, she preferred the whine of machines to casual conversation that she felt was wasted. That was not to say she was a solitary animal or disliked the friendship of others. She was picky with friends as she was with her gold and silks, and loved to attend parties and celebrations whenever they popped up.

The one complaint she had – among many – was that she did not like excessive attention. She knew she was almost twenty and unmarried, and suitors would not wait on her forever. Delaram may have insisted on picking a good husband for her so that she could live as freely as she could in this Republic, but Mehrnaz was not an idiot. Every year wasted on education, parties, and aging meant she'd be shunned by the community as a whole. She knew desperation was brimming under the surface of her mother's resolve.

That day, she promised her mother she would discuss a few proposals from boys close to her age. They'd have a formal party, exchange pleasantries, and maybe earn a spot on her _tavalod_ list.

Mehrnaz dreaded it. The one thing that even brightened her day at the prospect was that her Uncle Mehrdad would be there. She hadn't seen him in years, and she craved his presence and his calming influence. She turned to him for advice, not her father; even though Irman was always willing to cater to his daughter's every needs, she felt he wanted to spoil her, and was hardly honest with her. Her uncle filled that void, though he left a deep void of his own with his constant absences.

She tried not to think about it. It'd lessen the pain.

Her _maghne'e_ was wound tightly around her head, an Oxford blue that matched her trousers and loose manteau that fell past her bottom, as was custom. Cinched at her waist was a heavy belt, studded with lapis lazuli. Mehrnaz had protested to her mother that morning that such a belt was asking for not-so-precious stones to be thrown at her head. Delaram had stuck her tongue out in her motherly way: jutting out of the corner of her mouth, right over her lipstick. Delaram consented to Mehrnaz having the belt tucked beneath her clothing, so that it was modest and did not attract too much notice. She paired it with dark violet slippers, her bare feet covered under her clothes.

She'd seldom understood her mother's eccentricities. The woman, swarthy in skin tone yet with the classic groomed Persian eyebrows and fine-tuned lips, wanted her to be stylish in every which way. Delaram would braid her hair under her headscarf, or leave it loose under an extra long cloth that was a pain to untangle when it was windy. When that happened, Delaram would appear with her homemade conditions and trusty comb, and Mehrnaz's head would be a welcoming party for bees for the rest of the day.

That morning, Delaram clucked her tongue, calling her routine 'lazy'. "You must always look presentable and modest," her mother said. "No one will take you seriously if you do not."

Delaram then insisted on correcting every mistake – a loose string, chafing slippers, a shirt that was too tight – and then also insist that she look as dazzling as an African parrot. This was in response to Irman's influence: cuffs that were loose and showed too much wrist, a watch that was on backwards, etc.

Despite Delaram's annoyance, it was all playful banter. She was seldom a brooding, serious woman who dictated things to her child. Mehrnaz assumed this was because she was the only living child, and Delaram hadn't gotten a chance to dazzle and awe any other children.

"There we are," Delaram said when she had finished. "As fine as any bit of Indian gold."

"I think I would be gaudy if I went that route," Mehrnaz had said.

"Nonsense! You'll have so much gold on you for your _tavalod_ you'll sink right through the floor!" Her mother had winked. "Now, where's that God-forsaken lunchbox? I told you I'd buy you a new one!"

Mehrnaz still had the lunchbox. Delaram would have to call in the U.S. Marines if she wanted to pry it from her daughter's grasp.

At the Tehran Metro, the cool air from the subway trains brushed loose strands of hair away from her face. She breathed in and enjoyed the air. She wrapped her arms tighter around her chest, watching from beneath her parted eyelids her book bag, filled with textbooks and notebooks for her to fill with homework once classes were over.

She tapped a foot to the _tick tick tick_ of wheels on tracks. A few minutes and her train would arrive.

Then, a _tap tap tap_ on her shoulder. She turned at the touch, eyebrows partially raised at the intrusion.

A dark-eyed, dark skinned boy smiled at her. He stepped back a few paces to give her room.

"I was wondering when you'd show up. I kept looking around at the other subways. I hardly ever catch you here," he said.

She bowed her head in acknowledgment. "Kazem," she said.

It had been several weeks since the incident at her home. She made a house call to Kazem a few days afterwards, speaking to his mother Noushin. Noushin had told her that her boy went to the hospital not long after he returned, and that the doctor thanked whoever had tended to him first. Had Kazem's wounds not been closed, infection would set in and he surely would have lost the arm that showed bone. The doctor even appraised the sutures; he was confident the scars would pose no issue towards Kazem's physical appearance. So long as he could continue playing tennis, his parents would stay happy.

Even when she spotted him in the hallways at Sharif University, he refused to talk about what had happened to him. He stuck to his story that it was a fight gone wrong, but Izad and Baraz's parents were not convinced whatsoever. She knew the police would get involved, and since Izad's father was a lawyer (expatriate; he'd studied overseas) Kazem would answer to a judge one day. If that reality didn't occur to him, then he was idiotic. But Mehrnaz suspected that he didn't care. Why he didn't was again a question that simmered in her head along with the sights of his scars.

"Has the day been good to you?" he asked her. His hands were tucked into a loose pair of Western-style jeans, with a FIFA soccer shirt covering his torso and the worst of the scarring.

Were it not for the subterranean air cooling her off, Mehrnaz thought her irritation would set fire to her skin. The question itself was innocent, relating to her only, but Mehrnaz thought it a cheap cover for Kazem's gerrymandering. She felt he was jinxing her, and she did not like that in the slightest bit.

"As good as it can be," she replied, cool and even, like the heat rippling through her skin did not exist. "I have chemistry exams to prepare for. It is an advanced course, and I cannot fail them."

"I am sure you will do fine." He beamed at her. "You have never missed a day, and are always at the top of your class." He laughed. "How do you ever make time for social events?"

"I don't. My mother does," she said, albeit a bit more cross than she would have liked.

Kazem noticed the change in tone, and sighed. "Mehrnaz, I know I should have been honest with you about what happened to me. But I..." His tempo dropped. "You would think my head is twisting off with lies."

Mehrnaz chuckled, and the sound was as strange to him as it was to her. "Silly boy." She shook her head. "You're such a silly boy, Kazem."

Kazem frowned. He wasn't sure if the blonde beauty was deliberate in her mocking of him. It was not as if he could open his skull and pour out the contents like tea from a samovar!

 _By God, I just cannot speak my mind, woman! You have to understand me. I don't want your skin torn up like mine!_

Mehrnaz looked at him, and did – by her admission – a horrible ballet twirl, and held her arms out. Her mouth was worked in a half-smirk, half grin. It made her look absolutely devious. "As the Westerners say, 'Your word is as good as mine.' I'm not going to say anything more. Keep your secrets, Kazem. I simply hope you won't be jinxed because of them."

When her subway train arrived, Mehrnaz stepped on. Kazem followed her, even though he knew his car wasn't to arrive for another ten minutes. He stood next to her near the back of the scarcely populated car, but did not stand too close as to give the impression he was harassing her.

He was half a head taller than her, and Mehrnaz was tall for a woman; she stood at 5'9, he at 6'1. He slouched rather than stood straight, and looked like a sagging beanstalk whenever he leaned in close. She could smell the mint he chewed every morning on his breath.

"Mehrnaz, please don't do this to me. My mother already had her share of overreaction. I don't think I can stand five more minutes of it."

"That is simply too bad, _golabi._ And your mother had the right to treat you like a cursed songbird. What nasty little twittering you have!"

Kazem sighed through his nose. He closed his eyes for a moment. "You are always so dramatic. I would think you'd make a Russian ballet to mock me."

"Do you not think for a moment why your presence irritates me so?" she hissed. "You and I are friends, Kazem. We're unmarried and yet we speak freely. I trusted you with my secrets when Farrah was not there. So why can't you hold your end of the bargain? Am I that much of a simpering woman to not be trusted?"

A part of her wanted this exchange not to happen. Kazem was correct: it was over-dramatic, maybe senseless. But Mehrnaz couldn't forget a promise made to her. If someone says they will speak to you next week after they run to your home bleeding and torn like a butchered ram, and they do not, what is to be made of that?

If she was not irritated, she feared she would have started crying. So she kept up the fiery barrier, and provoked Kazem some more.

"What do you think will happen once a judge tries you for double-homicide, Kazem? That you are the only one to survive a fight between your best friends? What will Noushin think? Or will she be just another wronged woman, with another son that came out the wrong end of her _solakh kun_?"

Kazem's head snapped to the side as if Mehrnaz had slapped him, even though her hands will still placed on her book bag. She could see his body cringing; the muscles rippling inward, the awkward placement of his shoes. Had he been any other boy, any other man, such talk would have Mehrnaz's head snapping the other way. But she said it not to truly hurt him. She said it because she felt she'd been scorned by his dishonesty.

He didn't reply, and Mehrnaz said nothing else. She toyed with the rings on her fingers, re-adjusted her headscarf and rubbed an itchy heel with a slippered foot. When the metro arrived near the exchange towards the

university, Kazem followed her off and up the stairs, and matched her stride.

"I think of Izad and Baraz everyday," he said lowly. "I think about what happened between them and myself, how it ended the way it did...the scars are on my soul and conscience as they are on my body. There is no forgiveness here."

"Enough with this, Kazem!" she snapped. It was not loud enough to earn the stares of passing Tehranis. "You say you are guilty and the wounds are heavy on your shoulders. But you cannot spare me a minute to tell me the truth! You know they will question me as well, Kazem. Do you think I want to be an accessory to your crimes?"

"No! Please, just listen, Mehrnaz. I know I said I would speak to you last week. I know I did. But I could not approach you. My mother and father would not allow it, and neither would yours. Besides, if I spoke the truth, you would laugh at me and you would truly dance on my wounds!"

The blonde, beguiled girl didn't know whether to cry and stain her cheeks, or let her scorn redden her them like Delaram's lipstick. Her eyebrows were knitted so tight they looked like a spool of ribbon across her forehead, her hands tightened around her book bag as if she could turn to it for help.

She stared at Kazem, lips and feet still, focused on no one but him.

Then, she wasn't there. She was launched at least thirty feet across the pavement, with no sound but an engine thundering over Kazem's ears.

* * *

 _ **Notes:**_

 _ **\- Zadan - jinx**_

 _ **\- tavalod - birthday (IIRC)**_

 _ **\- kundi bazari - street kids (insult)**_

 _ **\- golabi - fool**_

 _ **\- solakh kun - asshole**_

 _ **\- Soundwave is referencing a quote from George W. Bush, Hall and Oates' 'Maneater', and Informatik's 'A Matter of Time.'**_


End file.
